


Compiled Kink Meme Fills

by filiabelialis



Category: Planeshift Fictional TV Series Campaign
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 14:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filiabelialis/pseuds/filiabelialis
Summary: Prompt: ACCIDENTAL BABY ACQUISITION.Anybody. Everybody. The entire party trying and failing to take care of a small child is all I want in the world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: ACCIDENTAL BABY ACQUISITION.
> 
> Anybody. Everybody. The entire party trying and failing to take care of a small child is all I want in the world.

“The Gold failed to mention that they're usually invisible,” says Skjaldi, disgruntled.

“I would have thought it common lore, for Force dragons,” sniffs Lakal.

“Maybe you should think about how relatively common Force dragons are,” says Dyr, evidently deciding to step in before Skjaldi's truly formidable stink-eye can escalate into outright violence. “What do they eat, then? Maybe we can lure it back to us.”

Tsadok glances behind them, where a trail of glitter marks Lowen's pursuit of a dragon that is far, far too energetic for having been so recently dead. He doesn't think it's going to let itself be caught so easily.

“They can eat anything they like,” Lakal is saying, “but they rely on certain energies for their actual sustenance. Divine energy seems to be especially prized.”

As if on cue, the small, slightly shimmery hatchling materializes next to Dyr's right leg, and tries to savage it. The metal actually dents.

“Ah ah, no,” Dyr hops a little, trying to shake it off. “That is not yours. You're not even the first in line. Get off.”

Tsadok kneels, wraps his arms around its body, and heaves. He falls backward with the squalling, thrashing dragon in his arms, and narrowly moves his head as it belches a small plume of divine light. Gwinna hurries over, trying to murmur soothing words. It refuses to be soothed.

“See, this is why Tsadok is going to be a great dad someday,” says Elliwick, unhelpfully, grinning at him.

Aja proves more helpful when she pulls a minor healing wand from her pack and waves it gently in front of the hatchling. After a moment of sniffing hesitation, it clamps its teeth on the end; less than two minutes later, it's being dandled on Aja's hip, greedily draining the wand.

By then, the group is watching, tranfixed. This small thing is their future—their hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Dyr/Tsadok, not sure how the details would play out, but I'm intrigued by the thing where they can each feel pain inflicted on the other. But in a kink context.

Tsadok stops mid-moan. “Oh,” he says, “You left the charm on.” He uncurls his fingertips from Dyr’s back.  
  
Her back feels raw from where he’s been scratching it. She reaches further around his body, and finds welts to mirror hers. _Oh._  
  
“Oh, gods, I’m sorry,” is what she _says_, and reaches to undo the clasp. He stops her.  
  
“No,” he smiles, a little sly. “You can leave it on.”  
  
When Dyr gets her breath back, she says, “I’m going to cast a shield on you, okay?”  
  
She barely finishes the spell before Tsadok is digging his fingers into her hips, shivering, and she can see why; dark, purplish marks are blooming to life on his own hips, in a pattern the size of his hands. They will have matching bruises later. She shivers, too.  
  
She bites into the muscle of his shoulder, but likes that less—her mouth is smaller than his, and doesn’t leave pinpricks of blood like his canine teeth can. It doesn’t feel the same. There are limitations to what they can feel, too—pulling each other’s hair evokes very little feeling, and having his fingers inside her is not something he feels in analogue at all. “Maybe it only works when we do real damage to each other,” she surmises. Raising welts on both of them keeps being fun—she pulls back from him to scratch patterns into his stomach, and they watch the lines write themselves together where their skin meets.  
  
“I wonder if we are feeling it as we would if it were inflicted on us, or as the other feels it inflicted,” says Tsadok as they trace each other’s skin. “Maybe that’s too fine a distinction—“  
  
Dyr looks at her right side and its cartography of scars. “There’s a way to find out.” She brings her left hand to a place along the bottom of his ribs—she hasn’t found every numb spot on her body, but this is one she knows—and tries to draw blood.  
  
Pain shoots through her with shocking clarity. It’s certainly not hers, and she feels her face heat. _This is what it’s like to be myself inside his skin._  
  
The worst part about the accident was how Dyr was reduced by it. She grew into her mithral limbs like a turtle emerging from a shell, extending herself back into her whole body. She found it was natural to reach beyond that, into the weapons she held, little building blocks that expanded who she was. Then, into other people—grafting them to her with her power. She wonders if this is how it feels to the gods, when they grant power to their faithful.  
  
She tries to put it into words. “It’s like you’re part of me.” Her breath is short, and Tsadok’s body feels closer than it could possibly be. “I made you part of me. It’s very, very intimate.” She’s extended this intimacy to every one of her friends that she has protected, and the thought makes her feel warmer, fills her heart.  
  
“Yes. That is how it feels,” Tsadok smiles, and kisses her, and Dyr feels laid bare, because he’s done it too, this act of communion. He’s felt for her what she’s feeling now.  
  
He bites into her lip as he kisses her, grounding her in a shared gasp. She digs a mithral knuckle into the space between two of his ribs, and her breath locks up in time with his, pain emanating from her left side. He grabs her left wrist and squeezes until she feels the bones creak; she takes hold of his right hand in time to feel it twitch with pain. It feels like a dance, more even than the other times they fight or have sex, synchronized in more than breath and movement. She’s dizzy with it, and the movement of his hips with hers makes her feel like she’s floating, riding on a wave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Skjaldi/anyone, weapon kink

Skjaldi lets another dagger drop, aimed to fall right between his eyes. He catches this one too, sending up a little tendril of energy to keep it hovering next to the other ones in the air.  
  
Skjaldi grins, walks over and plants a foot on either side of his head, gently brushing through the cloud of sharp objects over him. Many moving at once, that's--he compensates, they stay aloft. She looks down into his face, considering.  
  
"Letting them get a little close. You need this to be more exciting?"  
  
Kyr parses the words carefully, still keeping most of his focus on the hovering weaponry. "This is harder than it looks," he grumbles.  
  
She glances over her shoulder down the length of his supine body, and back to him with a smile that makes the unspoken innuendo perfectly clear. Kyr starts to laugh and breathes deep, regaining his center, his control.  
  
"Yeah, we're going to make this more exciting," she says, and starts to kneel, to slide herself down under the cloud of hovering blades, to _spread herself over his body_ which, she has to be kidding--  
  
"Still hanging in there?" she says into his ear, and he can feel her mouth an inch away from his skin. All the gods preserve them he is going to drops these fucking knives in a minute and she just trusts him.  
  
"Not for long," he grits out, and starts the gentlest breath of outward force in the air amongst the weapons. They drift out and away from their tangled bodies like dandelion seeds; Skjaldi watches them with a delight that Kyr wants to see in so much more than his peripheral vision. When they are far out of the way, he lets them all go. He's already kissing her like he needs her to live while they come down like metal rain.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Abthek, Kyr, Marilith Demon, Devils, Sharn, Psionics, ect/Anyone: Mind Games 
> 
> Warning for character death, but it's not permanent.

They made it. They made it to Yule, again, and they were all alive, and here, and not the servants of any Hellish nobility. Dyr slumps happily with a cup of mulled wine, and smiles when she catches Gwinna’s eye across the room, where she and Aja are sitting with their fingers tangled together. Gwinna smiles right back—she’s had an unshakable brightness of mood about her since they freed her from her bond to Asmodeus’ daughter. It’s something Dyr didn’t think she’d see, but then, it’s not often that Gwinna hasn’t been living under some kind of fear for her life. Now she has her whole long life ahead of her, unfettered. They all do.  
  
The cauldron of mulled wine on the hearth starts belching smoke, and Elliwick begins yelling for explanations an instant before Lowen begins yelling defensively about spices, and Dyr puts her face in her hands, laughing, while Skjaldi summons a small, localized raincloud to deal with it.  
  
Life is going to continue in much the same vein as it always has.  
  
**  
  
It’s barely a week after that that Dyr begins to wake with her stomach churning. Given the symptoms, her prognosis is simple, and thrilling. There’s a warmth that comes into her every time she touches her belly, and the warmth spreads to the faces of those around her when her unsubtle tells alert them to the news before she announces it widely.  
  
It’s a difficult pregnancy. This is a hassle, but not wholly a surprise; Dyr’s mother had difficulty carrying her children as well. She bears up under it with as much patience for coddling as she can muster (not much), and tries to keep Tsadok from worrying (he worries, though in a quiet way). A few of her friends are there to help her—and moreso Tsadok—when the time comes for the delivery. Aja holds her hand, and helps her with the pain.  
  
When she takes her swaddled daughter, heavy and shockingly loud, she thinks that little green-brown, screaming face is a comically ugly miracle. She adores her with a fervency that borders on sacrilege, even for her large heart.  
  
Tsadok suggests the name Kotasha, which Dyr loves.  
  
**  
  
Assassination attempts are not new to either ruler of the Empire, but the worst by far is the first time the target becomes her child, not her husband or herself. The man is caught before he succeeds and brought before her, and she thinks of crushing his skull like an egg, of painting the walls with him as she tells the assembled guards that no one is above the law, and this man will be tried as any criminal. He is eventually executed, which is not an outlandish punishment for assassins in the borders of their kingdom.  
  
After she orders the man taken to prison to await his trial, she finds a stone statue in an out of the way courtyard, and turns it to powder with her mithral fist.  
  
**  
  
There are many milestones in Dyr’s rule, and she remembers many with pride—the first crops peeking through the soil churned by battle the winter before, the final brick laid in the vast network of sewers and fresh-water pipes built under her land, new laws passed to keep the peace—but the ones she remembers with the most clarity involve children. _Predictable_, says a voice in her mind that sounds a bit like Skjaldi, but it says it lovingly.  
  
Gwinna never announces her pregnancy, simply lets her belly grow and accepts congratulations with a smile and wholly ignores any questions about who the father is. Lowen hatches a clutch of _eggs_ of all things, each of them nearly as large as herself, green as young leaves. Skjaldi simply travels, Kyr in tow often as not. Elliwick looks askance at children on principle. Asmun has no children, nor wants any—she cares for her golems and other devices, and names every one.  
  
Dyr names her second daughter Asmun, and Asmun flees the room yelling “I’m not crying! I’m not!” Later, she says, “We are both total shit at naming anything, aren’t we.”  
  
Maybe. Dyr isn’t sorry.  
  
**  
  
She has a son called Jamos four years later, and there is perhaps nothing that makes her so happy as watching them grow. It’s not easy—she and Tsadok have a country to run, and not nearly as much time as she would like for her family. She barely has enough time to give them even half the love they deserve, much less to keep them out of trouble. They are so, so frequently in trouble. Kotasha has broken a leg and two ribs, Little Asmun her skull, and Jamos his arm and leg by the time each of them reach ten. They grow up amid Lowen’s brood, though Jamos is better friends with Gwinna’s boy Herith until the latter reaches adolescence and can’t stand having a child follow him around. Jamos is heartbroken for some time, but discovers the study of magic as a way to pass near-friendless hours. Dyr worries he is lonely, but he is cheerful, engaged in his craft, and rarely quiet.  
  
Little Asmun is more difficult—well, she is no trouble at all. She is sensible and contained. Dyr has no idea what she thinks about, half the time. It is a comfort to Dyr that her second daughter, silent as she is around her mother, is close with her father; they have a common physical language, something entirely theirs. Dyr feels regret, but does not worry.  
  
Kotasha rebels openly: she flees her family, wanders, and makes more trouble than she even seeks to settle. It is never Dyr’s wish to weigh her children down with her own deeds and hopes, but it angers her to see her child show the kind of irresponsibility that frustrates Dyr desperately. There are a handful of years Dyr and Kotasha can’t speak peaceably.  
  
She comes back to them, in the end. Perhaps she changed her mind about what she valued—perhaps she simply needed her freedom confirmed. But she comes back wielding her father’s wit and her mother’s passion. She will make a wonderful queen, Dyr thinks.  
  
**  
  
Their efforts are many and extensive, but civil war is still a feature of Tsadok and Dyr’s reign. Dyr wonders how these can possibly feel more wearing than the events leading up to the collision, when she and all her friends spent so much time afraid. It’s the same answer as usual, for her: her own helplessness is her worst enemy.  
  
Lowen loses one of her children. Her grief is one of the worst things Dyr has seen, and keeps her up many nights afraid of the same loss; her son works among the mages, like Lowen’s children, and Young Asmun ascends the ranks of the imperial army.  
  
It’s little wonder that Kotasha approaches Dyr, even after her return to court and her involvement in its movements, and tells her mother she doesn’t want to rule. This is the darkest chapter of her daughter’s young life, Dyr thinks. Though she is exhausted and at a loss, she tells her daughter that she respects her choice, and that she deserves happiness in whatever she does. One of her siblings will be ready, when the time comes.  
  
**  
  
It takes decades, but the kingdom heals. Dyr and Tsadok both live to see their first grandchild, though only Dyr lives to see the second. The months without him feel empty, though she knows that does a disservice to her children’s full lives. Still.  
  
Her family, and her friends, many of them still looking as young as when she first met them, are good to Dyr up through the days she can’t carry her own heavy limbs anymore. They visit her at her bedside, and she finds she is content. Her life has been wondrous, and wonderful in more ways than she could ask for, and she misses her husband. She’s ready.  
  
She wakes in hell.  
  
A queen of Hell stands before her—Glasya, Asmodeus’ daughter, Dyr remembers from years past, who wanted Gwinna’s soul. She is arrayed in rich dark magic and surrounded by a retinue of devils, and simply stands before Dyr, expectant.  
  
Dyr doesn’t hesitate. She breaks chains as she draws her sword from her side—unsurprising, that they buried her with it. “How did you bring me here?” Dyr demands to know. “My soul is Pelor’s, and no matter what has changed, you would have no claim on it.”  
  
Glasya’s smile could light a thousand fires. She laughs in Dyr’s face. “Bring you here?” she gloats. “You came here, and you never left. My lieutenant caught you some few hours ago, while you tried to break into my palace to save your friend Gwinna’s soul.” She turns to an infernal underling. “Hlirox, what have you been doing to her?” she asks, delighted and curious.  
  
“The brave are hard to break with fear,” the smaller devil answers. “So we break them with hope. I gave her the happy ending she wants. She’ll have a small respite, now, to understand the truth, and then I’ll give her another.”  
  
Dyr hears a soft tinkling sound below her field of vision. She can feel her hands shaking.  
  
Glasya notices, and smiles nastily. “She won’t need many more, I think.”  
  
She is abruptly bisected. Tsadok finishes the strike, cutting into Hlirox as well, as Dyr’s companions—all of them young, unchanged and full of glory—fan into the room.  
  
“How did you find me?” Dyr asks Tsadok. “Did you come here when you died too?” Even before his brow furrows in confusion, she realizes it’s nonsensical. _All_ of her companions are here. _None_ of them changed.  
  
“Dyr?” he questions, but looks away to concentrate on breaking the last of her bonds, taking her hand and pulling her toward the door. _I haven’t seen you in years,_ Dyr thinks. Every moment of this feels so unreal.  
  
**  
  
She’s causing her friends a lot of concern, Dyr realizes. She tries not to, even knows, logically, that her rescue was almost certainly really her rescue. There are just certain things she can’t get past. How could she feel years—real years, full of sleep and boring meetings and mundane conversations as well as the trials of an empire and the joys of children she’s _never even met_, how could she have only been there hours--  
  
Hlirox said, _I’ll give her another_. It’s the perfect segue. It could take her the rest of her life to believe this one was real, but at the end of that life she’d find out all over again that it wasn’t. She simply wouldn’t know, until it was over. She shivers. Ending it is not an option. Instead, she spends a lot of time staring at things that don’t make sense and willing them to break, chases the edges of her vision to try and see where they don’t line up.  
  
They ask Zeth to speak with her, knowing something of how this feels. Dyr doesn’t want to talk. It’s not that she isn’t grateful to Zeth, or even that she doesn’t trust her; she doesn’t trust her own perception. She has no desire to vent her deeper feelings to whatever devil might really be behind this seeming.  
  
It makes moments of love difficult: not only between her and Tsadok, but every moment of trust and affection she has with her friends. _This is mine, not yours to laugh at,_ she thinks at the memory of Glasya. Dyr hesitates, holds back as she never did.  
  
Nightmares are very infrequent, thankfully, because waking up in Hell and then home in quick succession never fails to leave her feeling lost and suspicious for the better part of the following day. Her mind, preying on her own worst fears, sometimes constructs these dreams as glimpses back into reality, as though it is in those hours and not her waking ones that she has truly fought her way to the surface.  
  
There is no one moment that offers her final proof. Millennia of philosophizing on the nature of reality are not to be solved in a single instance of faith or love.  
The evidence adds up, though. Devils are beings governed heavily by rules, who value coherence. Real life is and does not.  
  
Glasya almost certainly never would have considered _celestial wool_ as a likely (and shockingly effective) method of insulating heat as well as certain positive energies, and neither would Dyr have imagined it on her own; this invention was a distinct piece of Asmun-logic. Nor would she guess that Skjaldi and Kyr, for all their intimacy and obvious love, would maintain a largely platonic relationship. No one under the Sun could have anticipated the situation she and Skjaldi found themselves in a day ago, staring transfixed into the spying-gem the Copper provided and shrieking with uncontrollable, uncharitable laughter while Dusk, Gwinna, Zeth, and Aja enacted some kind of dramatic romantical pantomime unsuspecting of any observation. The reason they’ve all lived as long as they have is that her friends keep being too bizarre to predict. The world around her, in it’s infinite, varied, multiplanar beauty does too.  
  
The fear is never wholly shaken from her spirit, but eventually Dyr resigns herself to living her life as she knows best: she takes it on faith.


End file.
